Perfect
by TragicBlackButterfly
Summary: Voldemort is determined to make his first holiday season with his soulmate perfect, but Quirrell knows that's probably not what will happen. Based on characters from Team Starkid's A Very Potter Musical. Quirrellmort/Quirrelmort. This is a follow-up oneshot to 'I'm Yours Forever.' To avoid confusion, please read it first.


**Nothing like some Quirrellmort fluff to get you in the holiday spirit! Hope you enjoy, loves.**

"Voldemort, could you come here for a moment?" Quirrell's voice drifted from the living room, sweet and calm as always. The former Dark Lord wiped his forehead with his arm, his hands covered entirely in baking flour.

Since he accepted Quirrell as his soulmate, he'd been spending more and more time with him at his apartment. So much, that he might as well have moved in with him, but Voldemort wasn't sure if they were ready for that or not. Quirrell never pushed him to do anything he didn't want to when it came to their relationship, far more patient with him than he deserved. A piece of him still didn't think that a piece of shit guy like him deserved such a perfect soulmate, but Quirrell argued against that notion every time they got into it.

Despite everything, Voldemort was determined that Christmas this year was going much better than the previous one. He had accepted the holiday cheer head on and even promised Quirrell he would make cookies for the holiday. They decorated the house together, and even someone as Grinch-y as Voldemort couldn't deny that Quirrell's holiday cheer was quite infectious.

Secretly, he wanted everything to be perfect this year. He had plans to ask Quirrell a very important question, and he didn't even want a single light out of place when he did it. So he prepared for Christmas with all the ferocious energy he used to put into his evil plans, and he knew Quirrell was impressed and pleased, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

"In a minute, let me wash my hands," Voldemort called back, maneuvering his way through the kitchen toward the sink. If he'd been told a year ago that he'd be making chocolate chip cookies, he would have punched that person in the face (unless it had been Quirrell because the squirrel-y man he loved more than anything had never been wrong before).

Sure, he was a bit of a Grinch; Quirrell had mercilessly teased him about that at the beginning of the holiday season until he came home and found that Voldemort had taped mistletoe to every surface he could reach, the Dark Lord himself smugly relaxing on the couch with a cup of tea. The holidays meant so much to Quirrell, he soon learned. He loved everything about it, from the specks of snow swirling through the air to the twinkling lights to the Christmas tree covered in who-knows-whats. He liked the baking and the dinner and the gift-giving, everything Voldemort had spent his entire life avoiding. Even his Death Eaters had known not to mention the dreaded holiday to him! Why wouldn't he be a Grinch after being outcast and insulted everywhere he went?

"Take your time." Quirrell's voice was closer than he expected, and Voldemort turned to see his soulmate standing in the doorway to the kitchen, trying not to smile. Something had entertained him, which could have been either very good for Voldemort or very bad. Last time Quirrell wore a smile like that, all mischievous and controlled, he had found the broken flower pot Voldemort tried to hide behind the couch (how the hell was Voldemort supposed to know that the little squirrel would go sniffing around for a book and stumble across his missing plant?), and the two of them had to have a serious conversation about keeping ridiculous secrets from each other. But Voldemort had kept to his word since then! What the fuck could have Quirrell smirking like that?

"Something wrong?" he dared to ask slowly, afraid to prod at the topic when his soulmate wore such a dangerous expression.

"Voldemort, you know I love you, right?" Quirrell crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, watching his soulmate closely.

"Er…yeah?" Quirrell raised an eyebrow at his unconvincing reply, and Voldemort added hurriedly, "I mean, of course I know you love me! More than anything, right?"

"That's right," Quirrell agreed, beaming as a tiny blush tinged his cheeks. It didn't matter how many times they confessed; Quirrell still managed to get a little flustered, which Voldemort decided was more than endearing. "I love you more than anything, Voldemort. Because I love you, I'm always open to your ideas and your input, even if I don't necessarily agree with them."

"Just spit it out, Quirrell. What are you getting at?" Voldemort's muscles had tightened, his posture tense as he tried to figure out what the fuck Quirrell could even be talking about. He hadn't made any out of the ordinary suggestions that he knew of, except—

 _Oh._ Shit.

"Remember how you suggested that we use _real candles_ on the Christmas tree this year?" Quirrell calmly reminded, waiting for it to sink in.

" _Fuck_!" Voldemort hissed, grabbing a towel as he dodged around his boyfriend to reach the living room where, sure enough, their once gorgeous tree was smoldering. He tried for a moment to fan the flames before deciding that was a stupid idea and grabbing the fire extinguisher that Quirrell insisted they kept handy. An array of curses left his mouth as he put out the flames, grumbling to himself for his own stupidity. He'd seen it enough in the movies, and _their_ trees never caught fire! Luckily, Quirrell had brought it to his attention before the entire thing could be destroyed, but it definitely didn't look as nice as it had.

So much for a perfect Christmas. He dropped the extinguisher to the ground, still muttering at his stupidity as he headed for the door. He had his coat on before Quirrell stood in front of him, blocking the door and watching him with a raised eyebrow. He shifted under the accusing stare and shoved his hands in his pockets, wishing he could just shrink away and vanish.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"To get a new tree! And lights and ornaments and shit!"

Quirrell's endless patience had returned in the form of a small smile and a cross of his arms. "May I ask why?"

"Are you blind? Don't you see the perfectly ruined tree over there? Why are you being so calm about this? I nearly lit your apartment on fire!" Voldemort pointed at the still smoking tree, attempting to rein in his temper. He hated getting loud with Quirrell, especially when his boyfriend was being so _fucking serene_ about the entire situation.

"Voldemort, I don't want a new tree. Sure, that one doesn't look as nice as it did, but we put it up together. This is our first Christmas. Sure, it might not be the perfect Christmas tree, and it's a little singed… but it's perfect for us." Voldemort wasn't sure if he'd heard him right, but Quirrell's eyes, always so sincere and expressive, reinforced his words. Quirrell _knew_ Voldemort would end up lighting the tree on fire, but he let him do it anyways. Voldemort wanted to demand why, to understand why Quirrell let him go through with such a stupid idea, but Quirrell's little smile said it all.

So what if he lit the Christmas tree on fire? The holiday would be perfect because they were together, not because of a stupid tree and some lights. _Fucking hell_ , just when he thought he couldn't love Quirrell any more than he already did.

Quirrell kept talking, and Voldemort forced himself to focus on the overall meaning instead of each individual word; he couldn't help how distracting Quirrell's mouth was when he loved him so much. "If it really upsets you, I guess you can go ahead and get another one, but I want to give you something first." Taking Voldemort's hand, he pulled him over to the couch and made him sit down before he disappeared for a moment. Voldemort could hear him rooting around in the bedroom for a moment, but he returned a few minutes later with his hands wrapped around a little box, clutching it to him as though it might be the most precious thing in the world to him.

"I wanted to hold out on this until Christmas, but I don't think I can wait that long," he nervously explained as he sat down beside Voldemort, curling up the way he always did. He reminded Voldemort of a cat the way he always found comfort in the strangest positions. He anxiously held out the small box, hastily adding, "S-sorry it's not wrapped. I haven't found any of my wrapping paper yet. Honestly, I'm not even sure I have any left over from last year, so that could explain why I haven't found any…"

"Quirrell, _man_ , calm down. It's fine." Voldemort reached out for the box, gripping Quirrell's shaking fingers for a moment to reassure him. Smiling shyly, Quirrell fidgeted, watching and waiting for his soulmate to lift the little blue lid. With a deep breath, Voldemort looked inside the box, his heart nearly stopping when he saw what sat nestled there. His fingers quivering, he pulled out the silver key, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to work through the emotions overwhelming his brain.

Quirrell, in the meantime, had started babbling again. "I know it's been a few months since you started sort of living here with me—and I don't want to make you feel obligated or uncomfortable or anything like that—but I thought you might like to have your own key. Make it kind of, well… official. That you're living here. With me. Wow. I just can't shut up, can I? Listen, if I've gone too far or you think I'm moving too fast, it's okay, just—" Voldemort shut him up in the only way he knew how: by snogging him. If any other method of silencing Quirrell existed, he didn't want to know about it. He loved the little surprised noises Quirrell made the moment he pressed his mouth to his and the way his lips would relax and return the sentiment once he got over his shock.

"No, it's perfect. I don't even know what to say." So Voldemort didn't say anything else. Surging forward again, he cupped Quirrell's face with one hand, the one still holding the key finding his waist to tug him closer. His soulmate hummed pleasantly, opening himself up to the kiss and chuckling happily when Voldemort started peppering kisses from his jaw to his throat. He threw his head back, gasping softly as Voldemort found that special spot on his neck and sucked on it gently, his tongue flicking out to sooth the mark once he was done. He shoved the coat from the Dark Lord's shoulders, opening his legs to give them more room to press closer.

Then his eyes caught something, and he laughed. "Voldemort," he urged, pushing gently on his chest to disconnect them. Huffing and more than a little irritated that his show of gratitude had been interrupted, Voldemort paused when he saw the devious grin back on Quirrell's face. He was beginning to _hate_ that look, especially what it did to him in situations like this. Slowly, Quirrell leaned up to nuzzle Voldemort's cheek, his teeth catching on his earlobe as his breath came out in hot puffs against his neck.

"Voldemort, the tree's on fire again."

" _Fuck_!" he growled, rushing to his feet and diving for the extinguisher once more, Quirrell's laughter ringing through their apartment. Their first Christmas together certainly wouldn't be conventional or perfect, but at least it would be memorable.

 **What was Voldemort going to ask? Will we ever know? Find out next time! Thanks for reading, dearies! Happy holidays!**


End file.
